er schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and
whom she did not like to go and see any more, because she suffered so
much when she came back.

But, one evening, her husband returned home with a triumphant air, and
holding a large envelope in his hand.

"There," said he, "here is something for you."

She tore the paper sharply, and drew out a printed card which bore
these words:

"The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges Ramponneau request
the honor of M. and Mme. Loisel's company at the palace of the Ministry
on Monday evening, January 18th."

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, she threw the
invitation on the table with disdain, murmuring:

"What do you want me to do with that?"

"But, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this
is such a fine opportunity. I had awful trouble to get it. Everyone
wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many
invitations to clerks. The whole official world will be there."

She looked at him with an irritated eye, and she said, impatiently:

"And what do you want me to put on my back?"

He had not thought of that; he stammered:

"Why, the dress you go to the theater in. It looks very well, to me."

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was crying. Two great
tears descended slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners
of her mouth. He stuttered:

"What's the matter? What's the matter?"

But, by a violent effort, she had conquered her grief, and she replied,
with a calm voice, while she wiped her wet cheeks:

"Nothing. Only I have no dress, and therefore I can't go to this ball.
Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I."

He was in despair. He resumed:

"Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable dress,
which you could use on other occasions, something very simple?"

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering
also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate
refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally, she replied, hesitatingly:

"I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred
francs."

He had grown a little pale, because he was laying aside just that
amount to buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer
on the plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks
down there of a Sunday.

But he said:

"All right.